cigar, and was lighting it as Ruthven ended his remarks. Surrounding himself with smoke, the criminal hunter drew into his shell of reflection and remained there for several absorbing minutes.
Finally he came out of it to say: "I came to Dry Wash hot after Morrison. He thought he had shaken me in Bismarck, North Dakota, I guess, but I learned he had bought a ticket for this place and was only a train or two behind him. Of course I had my doubts as to whether Morrison had really come to Dry Wash. Tickets are sometimes bought for a 'blind.' I came on, though, and went straight to the deputy sheriff in this place. There I connected with surprise number one." The detective knocked the ash off his cigar, and then resumed: "Jenkins, the deputy sheriff, had an anonymous letter from Burt City telling him to warn every Dry Wash man with money in his safe to be on guard, and that a cracksman named Weasel Morrison was loose in these parts with criminal intent. As a rule, anonymous letters never appeal to me; but, in the circumstances, this one did. Jenkins is prowling around now looking for Morrison. The Weasel knows me, so I am lying low and waiting for the deputy to report. From this you will see that your information comes in mighty pat. We're closing in on the crook, and I believe we're going to get him. Do you want to help?"
"How will the capture of Morrison affect Howard Millyar?" queried Ruthven anxiously. "Millyar is trying to live down that Catskills affair, but if the whole story was published broadcast"
"It won't be," cut in the detective. "Morrison will be brought to book for a crime committed in Montana. He'll not go back East."
Ruthven's face cleared of worry. "Then I want to help," said he. "What can I do?"
"Just tell me where you're going to be, so I can get you in a hurry, if necessary. Don't come near me any more. Just flock by yourself, and when I need your assistance I'll let you know."
"All right," agreed Ruthven. "I shall be right here in this hotel." He got up and started for the door.
"You're living in Burt City?" queried the detective.
"On a ranch near there."
"Have you any idea who it was sent that anonymous letter to Jenkins?"
"No."
"Keep turning it over in your mind and see if you can guess. The information might prove important."
Ruthven thereupon left the room. Having missed his dinner, he was hungry enough to do more than justice to a good supper. After the meal he went to his room and stretched out on his bed. He was thinking of the anonymous letter, and somehow coupling it with the talk Lois McKenzie had had with Weasel Morrison between Williamsburg and Burt City. Was it possible that Lois had written that unsigned communication? He could not believe it. He was glad, however, that he had not mentioned the girl's name in his talk with the detective.
About nine o'clock he undressed and got into his blankets. It was morning, just about dawn, when he was aroused by a soft tap on his door. "Who's there?" he called. No voice answered, but the tapping continued. Leaping out of bed, he opened the door and found the detective in the hall.
"Dress as quickly as you can," said the detective, "and come down. We've got our man trapped. We may not need you, but there's a man with Morrison, and I think it's just as well to have you along."
Hackett paused for no further words, and Ruthven, in some excitement, be-
